WHAT 

CHRISTMAS  IS  AS  WE 
GROW  OLDER 

BY 

CHARLES  DICKENS 


SAN  FRANCISCO 

TAYLOR,  NASH  y  TAYLOR 

MDCCCCXII 


HENRY  MORSE  STE1-HEMS 


TIME  was,  with  most  of  us,  when 
Christmas  Day  encircling  all  our 
limited  world  like  a  magic  ring, 
left  nothing  out  for  us  to  miss  or  seek; 
bound  together  all  our  home  enjoyments, 
affeftions,  and  hopes  ;  grouped  everything 
and  every  one  around  the  Christmas  fire; 
and  made  the  little  pidlure  shining  in  our 
bright  young  eyes,  complete. 

Time  came,  perhaps,  all  too  soon,  when 
our  thoughts  overleaped  that  narrowbound- 
ary;  when  there  was  some  one  (very  dear, 
we  thought  then,  very  beautiful,  and  abso- 
lutely perfect)  wanting  to  the  fulness  of  our 
happiness;  when  we  were  wanting  too  (or 


514245 


we  thought  so,  which  did  just  as  well)  at 
the  Christmas  hearth  by  which  that  some 
one  sat;  and  when  we  intertwined  with 
every  wreath  and  garland  of  our  life  that 
some  one's  name. 

That  was  the  time  for  the  bright  visionary 
Christmases  which  have  long  arisen  from  us 
to  show  faintly,  after  summer  rain,  in  the 
palest  edges  of  the  rainbow!  That  was  the 
time  for  the  beatified  enjoyment  of  the 
things  that  were  to  be,  and  never  were,  and 
yet  the  things  that  were  so  real  in  our  res- 
olute hope  that  it  would  be  hard  to  say, 
now,  what  realities  achieved  since,  have  been 
stronger! 

What!  Did  that  Christmas  never  really 
come  when  we  and  the  priceless  pearl  who 
was  our  young  choice  were  received,  after 
the  happiest  of  totally  impossible  mar- 
riages, by  the  two  united  families  previously 
at  daggers-drawn  on  our  account?  When 
brothers  and  sisters  in  law  who  had  always 
been  rather  cool  to  us  before  our  relation- 


ship  was  effected,  perfectly  doted  on  us,  and 
when  fathers  and  mothers  overwhelmed  us 
with  unlimited  incomes?  Was  that  Christ- 
mas dinner  never  really  eaten,  after  which 
we  arose,  and  generously  and  eloquently 
rendered  honour  to  our  late  rival,  present 
in  the  company,  then  and  there  exchanging 
friendship  and  forgiveness,  and  founding  an 
attachment,  not  to  be  surpassed  in  Greek 
or  Roman  story,  which  subsisted  until 
death?  Has  that  same  rival  long  ceased  to 
care  for  that  same  priceless  pearl,  and  mar- 
ried for  money,  and  become  usurious? 
Above  all,  do  we  really  know,  now,  that 
we  should  probably  have  been  miserable  if 
we  had  won  and  worn  the  pearl,  and  that  we 
are  better  without  her? 

That  Christmas  when  we  had  recently 
achieved  so  much  fame;  when  we  had  been 
carried  in  triumph  somewhere,  for  doing 
something  great  and  good;  when  we  had 
won  an  honoured  and  ennobled  name,  and 
arrived  and  were  received  at  home  in  a 

[3] 


shower  of  tears  of  joy;  is  it  possible  that 
that  Christmas  has  not  come  yet? 

And  is  our  life  here,  at  the  best,  so  con- 
stituted that,  pausing  as  we  advance  at  such 
a  noticeable  mile-stone  in  the  track  as  this 
great  birthday,  we  look  back  on  the  things 
that  never  were,  as  naturally  and  full  as 
gravely  as  on  the  things  that  have  been 
and  are  gone,  or  have  been  and  still  are? 
If  it  be  so,  and  so  it  seems  to  be,  must  we 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  life  is  little 
better  than  a  dream,  and  little  worth  the 
loves  and  strivings  that  we  crowd  into  it? 

No!  Far  be  such  miscalled  philosophy 
from  us,  dear  Reader,  on  Christmas  Day! 
Nearer  and  closer  to  our  hearts  be  the 
Christmas  spirit,  which  is  the  spirit  of  ac- 
tive usefulness,  perseverance,  cheerful  dis- 
charge of  duty,  kindness  and  forbearance! 
It  is  in  the  last  virtues  especially,  that  wre 
are,  or  should  be,  strengthened  by  the  un- 
accomplished visions  of  our  youth;  for, 
who  shall  say  that  they  are  not  our  teach- 

[4] 


ers  to  deal  gently  even  with  the  impalpable 
nothings  of  the  earth! 

Therefore,  as  we  grow  older,  let  us  be 
more  thankful  that  the  circle  of  our  Christ- 
mas associations  and  of  the  lessons  that 
they  bring,  expands !  Let  us  welcome  every 
one  of  them,  and  summon  them  to  take 
their  places  by  the  Christmas  hearth. 

Welcome,  old  aspirations,  glittering  crea- 
tures of  an  ardent  fancy,  to  your  shelter 
underneath  the  holly!  We  know  you,  and 
have  not  outlived  you  yet.  Welcome,  old 
projefts  and  old  loves,  however  fleeting,  to 
your  nooks  among  the  steadier  lights  that 
burn  around  us!  Welcome,  all  that  was 
ever  real  to  our  hearts;  and  for  the  earnest- 
ness that  made  you  real,  thanks  to  Heaven! 
Do  we  build  no  Christmas  castles  in  the 
clouds  now?  Let  our  thoughts,  fluttering 
like  butterflies  among  these  flowers  of  chil- 
dren, bear  witness!  Before  this  boy,  there 
stretches  out  a  Future,  brighter  than  we 
ever  looked  on  in  our  old  romantic  time, 

[5] 


but  bright  with  honour  and  with  truth. 
Around  this  little  head  on  which  the  sunny 
curls  lie  heaped,  the  graces  sport,  as  prettily, 
as  airily,  as  when  there  was  no  scythe  with- 
in the  reach  of  Time  to  shear  away  the  curls 
of  our  first-love.  Upon  another  girl's  face 
near  it — placider  but  smiling  bright — a 
quiet  and  contented  little  face,  we  see  Home 
fairly  written.  Shining  from  the  word,  as 
rays  shine  from  a  star,  we  see  how,  when 
our  graves  are  old,  other  hopes  than  ours 
are  young,  other  hearts  than  ours  are  moved; 
how  other  ways  are  smoothed;  how  other 
happiness  blooms,  ripens,  and  decays — no, 
not  decays,  for  other  homes  and  other  bands 
of  children,  not  yet  in  being  nor  for  ages 
yet  to  be,  arise,  and  bloom  and  ripen  to  the 
end  of  all ! 

Welcome,  everything!  Welcome,  alike 
what  has  been,  and  what  never  was,  and 
what  we  hope  may  be,  to  your  shelter  un- 
derneath the  holly,  to  your  places  round 
the  Christmas  fire,  where  what  is  sits  open- 

[6] 


hearted!  In  yonder  shadow,  do  we  see  ob- 
truding furtivelyupon  the  blaze,an  enemy's 
face?  By  Christmas  Day  we  do  forgive 
him!  If  the  injury  he  has  done  us  may 
admit  of  such  companionship,  let  him  come 
here  and  take  his  place.  If  otherwise,  un- 
happily, let  him  go  hence,  assured  that  we 
will  never  injure  nor  accuse  him. 

On  this  day  we  shut  out  Nothing! 

"Pause/'  says  a  low  voice.  "Nothing? 
Think!" 

"On  Christmas  Day  we  will  shut  out 
from  our  fireside,  Nothing." 

"  Not  the  shadow  of  a  vast  City  where  the 
withered  leaves  are  lying  deep?"  the  voice 
replies.  "Not  the  shadow  that  darkens  the 
whole  globe?  Not  the  shadow  of  the  City 
of  the  Dead?" 

Not  even  that.  Of  all  days  in  the  year, 
we  will  turn  our  faces  towards  that  City  upon 
Christmas  Day,  and  from  its  silent  hosts 
bring  those  we  loved,  among  us.  City  of 
the  Dead,  in  the  blessed  name  wherein  we 

[7] 


are  gathered  together  at  this  time,  and  in 
the  Presence  that  is  here  among  us  accord- 
ing to  the  promise,  we  will  receive,  and  not 
dismiss,  the  people  who  are  dear  to  us ! 

Yes.  We  can  look  upon  these  children 
angels  that  alight,  so  solemnly,  so  beauti- 
fully among  the  living  children  by  the  fire, 
and  can  bear  to  think  how  they  departed 
from  us.  Entertaining  angels  unawares,  as 
the  Patriarchs  did,  the  playful  children  are 
unconscious  of  their  guests;  but  we  can 
see  them — can  see  a  radiant  arm  around 
one  favourite  neck,  as  if  there  were  a  tempt- 
ing of  that  child  away.  Among  the  celes- 
tial figures  there  is  one,  a  poor  misshapen 
boy  on  earth,  of  a  glorious  beauty  now,  of 
whom  his  dying  mother  said  it  grieved  her 
much  to  leave  him  here,  alone,  for  so  many 
years  as  it  was  likely  would  elapse  before 
he  came  to  her — being  such  a  little  child. 
But  he  went  quickly,  and  was  laid  upon 
her  breast,  and  in  her  hand  she  leads  him. 

There  was  a  gallant  boy,  who  fell,  far 

[8] 


away,  upon  a  burning  sand  beneath  a  burn- 
ing sun,  and  said,  "Tell  them  at  home, 
with  my  last  love,  how  much  I  could  have 
wished  to  kiss  them  once,  but  that  I  died 
contented  and  had  done  my  duty!"  Or 
there  was  another,  over  whom  they  read 
the  words,  "Therefore  we  commit  his  body 
to  the  deep,"  and  so  consigned  him  to  the 
lonely  ocean  and  sailed  on.  Or  there  was 
another,  who  lay  down  to  his  rest  in  the 
dark  shadow  of  great  forests,  and,  on  earth, 
awoke  no  more.  O  shall  they  not,  from 
sand  and  sea  and  forest,  be  brought  home 
at  such  a  time  ? 

There  was  a  dear  girl — almost  a  wom- 
an— never  to  be  one — who  made  a  mourn- 
ing Christmas  in  a  house  of  joy,  and  went 
her  trackless  way  to  the  silent  City.  Do  we 
recolleft  her,  worn  out,  faintly  whispering 
what  could  not  be  heard,  and  falling  into 
that  last  sleep  for  weariness  ?  O  look  upon 
her  now!  O  look  upon  her  beauty,  her  se- 
renity, her  changeless  youth,  her  happiness ! 

[9] 


The  daughter  of  Jairus  was  recalled  to  life, 
to  die;  but  she,  more  blest,  has  heard  the 
same  voice,sayingunto  her,"  Arisefor  ever !" 

We  had  a  friend  who  was  our  friend 
from  early  days,  with  whom  we  often  pic- 
tured the  changes  that  were  to  come  upon 
our  lives,  and  merrily  imagined  how  we 
would  speak,  and  walk,  and  think,  and  talk, 
when  we  came  to  be  old.  His  destined 
habitation  in  the  City  of  the  Dead  received 
him  in  his  prime.  Shall  he  be  shut  out 
from  our  Christmas  remembrance?  Would 
his  love  have  so  excluded  us  ?  Lost  friend, 
lost  child,  lost  parent,  sister,  brother,  hus- 
band, wife,  we  will  not  so  discard  you !  You 
shall  hold  your  cherished  places  in  our 
Christmas  hearts,  and  by  our  Christmas 
fires;  and  in  the  season  of  immortal  hope, 
and  on  the  birthday  of  immortal  mercy,  we 
will  shut  out  Nothing! 

The  winter  sun  goes  down  over  town 
and  village;  on  the  sea  it  makes  a  rosy 
path,  as  if  the  Sacred  tread  were  fresh  up- 


on  the  water.  A  few  more  moments,  and 
it  sinks,  and  night  comes  on,  and  lights 
begin  to  sparkle  in  the  prospeft.  On  the 
hillside  beyond  the  shapelessly  diffused 
town,  and  in  the  quiet  keeping  of  the  trees 
that  gird  the  village-steeple,  remembrances 
are  cut  in  stone,  planted  in  common  flow- 
ers, growing  in  grass,  entwined  with  lowly 
brambles  around  many  a  mound  of  earth. 
In  town  and  village,  there  are  doors  and 
windows  closed  against  the  weather,  there 
are  flaming  logs  heaped  high,  there  are  joy- 
ful faces,  there  is  healthy  music  of  voices. 
Be  all  ungentleness  and  harm  excluded  from 
the  temples  of  the  Household  Gods,  but 
be  those  remembrances  admitted  with  ten- 
der encouragement!  They  are  of  the  time 
and  all  its  comtorting  and  peaceful  reas- 
surances; and  of  the  history  that  reunited 
even  upon  earth  the  living  and  the  dead; 
and  of  the  broad  beneficence  and  goodness 
that  too  many  men  have  tried  to  tear  to 
narrow  shreds. 


TAYLOR,  NASH  &  TAYLOR 

PRINTERS 

412    MISSION    STREET 
SAN    FRANCISCO 

The  spirit  of  Christmas  is  not  to  be  measured 
in  terms  of  commercialism.  It  is  for  this  reason 
that  the  little  book  we  are  giving  you  herewith 
has  purposely  been  freed  from  any  hint  of  ad- 
vertising. In  the  printing  of  it  we  have  put  all 
we  have  of  loving  care  that  the  message  it  car- 
ries may  be  the  more  acceptably  conveyed,  and 
so  join  hands  with  you  at  our  best  in  the  full 
joyousness  and  deep  significance  of  Yule-tide. 
It  is  with  this  thought  in  mind  that  we  wish  you 
a  Merry  Christmas  and  a  Happy  New  Year. 

Edward  DeJVitt  Taylor 
John  Henry  Nash 
Henry  H.  'Taylor 

Tour  copy  is  No. 

Keep  the  book  under  pressure 

for  a  few  days 


PUBLISHED  BY  TAYLOR,  NASH  AND  TAYLOR 
SAN  FRANCISCO  I  FOUR  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTY 
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NOV   4  193b 


2  A.  l 


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